Grandpa's pumpkin pie secret

JULIE WILDER

Published 4:00 am, Wednesday, November 27, 1996

Petaluma

FOR AS LONG as I can remember, my dad made the pumpkin pie.

Every Thanksgiving. Every Christmas. Whether we were staying home or visiting relatives, Dad was the Pumpkin Pie Guy. His were the best I'd ever tasted, and I was convinced that Dad had some secret, long-preserved family recipe - though I found out years later that his mother couldn't cook.

Dad always said that the secret to his creamy pumpkin pie was that he stirred after every single ingredient was added.

Even after a pinch of salt, Dad would not put in the next ingredient without stopping first to stir.

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I learned this technique, and today, whether I'm baking chocolate chip cookies or French toast batter with eggs, milk and a teaspoonful of vanilla, I stir after every addition.

My father died 10 years ago and, without fanfare or announcement, I decided that I would be the pumpkin pie baker for our family. That first Thanksgiving and Christmas, I was out of the country and missed the pies entirely, and I have no idea who endeavored to fill the role.

Then, nearly two years after my father's death, I was ready to attempt the pies, and I asked my mother for Dad's

"secret and famous recipe."

It was a shock to learn that Dad didn't have a secret recipe. It came from the Libby Pumpkin Pie can's label.

I was stunned. It wasn't written on a dogeared, dusty, splotchy recipe card. It was on the back of a can. I consoled myself by remembering that what was his was the stirring after every ingredient. That must be what makes it better than the rest, I decided. And all that love. And time.

Dad didn't just pour everything into a bowl and stir. He wasn't in a rush. He measured carefully, poured slowly, stirred methodically, scraping the sides of the bowl every few seconds before pouring the entire mixture into the crusts.

The crusts were usually made the night before. Sometimes an old movie would be on the TV or soft music would waft through the house - the voice of Ella or the strains of Stan Getz blending with the crust mixture.

Those late-night sounds of a family getting ready for the next day became additional ingredients. Along with

"stir after every addition," the mood and loving atmosphere were absorbed into those pies.

This year, my mother will serve 17 for dinner, typical for our family. In a conversation about who would bring what, she mentioned that she had asked Patti, a family friend, to bring pumpkin pies.

I was stunned. I sat silently. I blinked a few times. Mom went on about who was bringing what while my head filled with icky white-noise-buzz-stuff, and when I could hear her voice, I couldn't focus on what she was saying. Mom had asked someone else to bring pumpkin pies; that's all I could hear, over and over. My teeth began to hurt.

Finally I asked, weakly, "Why is Patti bringing the pies?"

"Oh, I just thought I'd have someone else bring the dessert. You're bringing two vegetables, so I wanted to make it easy on you."

"Mom, I always make the pies. I've made the pies since Dad died."

"You have?"

She sounded surprised.

"Yes, Mom. I've made the pies ever since Dad died. Making the pies is important to me. I want to make the pies."

My eyes welled up.

My mother was astounded. She had no idea what the pies symbolized for me - all that is Thanksgiving and the holidays, all that represents family and tradition and home. It means warmth and security and permanence. It means love. It makes me feel close to Dad, a legacy that had not been passed on to me, one that I had taken for my own.

I'm making the pies this year. And next. And probably until I die. I'll write the Libby's recipe on recipe cards, and when my daughters grow up and move away, I shall give them the cards and tell them:

"This is Grandpa-in-Heaven's Famous Pumpkin Pie recipe. Guard it carefully. Make it every year for your families after I'm gone.

"And remember to stir after each ingredient. That is what gives it that creamy, smooth texture and what makes it Grandpa's and no one else's."

Examiner contributor Julie Wilder, registrar at the Branson School in Ross, lives in Petaluma with her musician husband and twin daughters.&lt;